


Virtue and Vivacity

by Arabis_Eclipse



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, I just need to get the details down, My First Work in This Fandom, My first english fanfic, On Hiatus, Rating May Change, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Work In Progress, and write it all, british au, rough story outline is there, this is a hodgepodge of Phantom influences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabis_Eclipse/pseuds/Arabis_Eclipse
Summary: Currently on Hiatus as I rework and try to get my muse back.After long years of wandering the world, Erik returns home to find peace to fully commit to his passion for art in all its forms. But as he takes in a young seemingly mute girl he finds that there might be second chances even for somebody like him. And he has to face the fact that there might be more truth to myths and legends than he ever expected.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 23
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first story in a good 14 years and the first I dare publish in English. It might be clunky and unpolished but I hope it still provides some fun moments to some of you.  
> I have the very major story beats already in mind that I want to hit but I'm too eager to get this out into the world to wait until I have everything written down so I am yet unsure how long this story will be in the end but if everything goes as planned... it's going to be a roller coaster. ^_~
> 
> Enjoy

It was silence that greeted him, as he walked through the dark corridors, passing the portraits he used to stare at so much in his youth, as he had tried to understand and learn how exactly they had been painted, what techniques the artists had used to immortalize such beauty on a simple piece of canvas. After about a dozen of them, he came to an empty nail on the wall, waiting in vain to support a painting that would never come. 

_Of course._

His mother had been against commissioning a portrait of him, not wanting his face, his existence to be captured on canvas for generations to come. Surely she had hoped he'd die quickly, before he'd get old enough to give her any more grief. How wrong she had been. He had grown up to adulthood after all, which had led to even more grief than she could have ever expected. 

And now he had outlived her; had watched her being carried into the family crypt to join her beloved husband at long last. Maybe he should feel something; maybe he should be saddened at the thought of his mother's death. Surely this was expected of him, considering his last close relative had now been taken from this mortal realm. But there was neither grief or sadness within him. Though he didn't feel particularly elated either, not having to confront his mother with his return to Britain, after his disappearance almost two decades ago. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he didn't feel much of anything at the thought of his mother's death, or his return to his childhood home of Powderham Castle, now as its rightful master.

The formalities of his inheritance would be a hassle he didn't particularly care for, but the thought of giving up his title with its estate and its wealth to some distant cousin he had never met before was more unpleasant than having to deal with some inept lawyer for a little while. His parents might not have wanted him in this position, but now that they both were rotting in their graves he would—

"Who's sneaking around there! I'm going to bash your skull in if you dare to... _Mon Dieu! Votre Seigneurie?_ Is that you?" He heard behind him the raspy, thick French accent of Gerard Carrier, the elderly butler who had served his father back in the day, and who seemingly had stayed to serve his mother as well. Slowly he turned around to look at the elderly man, who had been the singular ray of light in the dark years growing up in these halls.

"Good Evening Gerard." His own voice had deepened and taken on a faintly exotic touch over the years abroad, but the melodic lilt that had been characteristic in his boyish treble was still there, subtle but powerful. His voice was a tool he had mastered to perfection throughout the years.

"It is so good to see you returned, my dear boy. But you could have sent a letter ahead." The elderly butler immediately huffed and lowered the iron poker he had clutched in his right hand, while keeping a hold on the candle holder with his left. His once black hair had gone almost completely grey and his face showed clear signs of his progressing age.

“And risk upsetting my dear mother with an announcement of my arrival?” the masked man spoke with a faint smile, the black leather mask that covered his face brushing along his cheeks. His slender fingers in their smooth leather glove brushed over the name plaque that had been fastened under the empty nail. 

_~Erik Sheridan Courtenay~_

“Though it seems my courtesy went unappreciated, seeing her recent passing.” Erik’s voice was light and pleasant, the smile now more defined than before as he brought his amber gaze back to the elderly servant, who in turn looked at him with something akin to love and sadness. 

“A shame you weren’t there for the funeral.”

“Oh, I was there." Erik continued on in his light tone, as if he was talking about attending a concert instead of his mother's funeral. "I just didn’t feel like it was a good time for my grand return. There will be enough for the people to talk about in a few days, after I officially inherited my father’s title and property.” He shrugged lightly as he resumed his way through the hallway towards his father’s old office, Gerard following close behind, lighting the way. 

Reaching the all too familiar door, Erik tried the handle but found the door locked, something that had never happened in his youth. “Oh, I should have the key here somewhere,” The young Earl heard his butler murmur behind him as he was already lowering himself onto one knee and pulling out the slender metal instruments from his sleeves which he used as lockpicks. Just a few well-placed pokes and turns and the door swung open with a faint creak. 

As he rose again, he felt Gerard step next to him, the flickering light of the candles bathing him in an almost ghostly light. “You have changed a lot, my boy,” he said and Erik could hear the worry in his voice.

“Well good. It would be a shame if I was still the same little boy, I was almost 20 years ago, wouldn’t you agree?” He noted with a mirthful twinkle in his golden yellow eyes as he took the candle holder from Gerard’s hand and stepped into the room. He quickly ignited the few candles and oil lamps which soon tried to bathe the room in a golden light. Not that it really succeeded in lightening up the room as the heavy desk and several cabinets lining the walls were made of dark walnut, swallowing most of the light and leaving the room in an almost oppressive dimness.

"I see nothing has changed here though." Erik walked over to the desk and almost gingerly took his seat in the somewhat dusty wingback chair that used to be his father's throne, ruling over his young life like a tyrant. A part of him waited for the imposing figure of his father to burst through the door and pull him off the chair by his hair. Nothing happened. He wanted to dangle his feet like he had done when he had been 7 years old. His shoes were firmly on the ground, unmoving. He was no longer a child. And this was no longer his father’s throne, from which he would look down upon him with disgust. It was just wood and fabric, a chair like any other. With this thought sinking in, Erik relaxed and leaned back into the upholstery, his leather-clad hands resting on the armrests.

So this had been his father’s vista. This had been what he saw whenever he would utterly decimate the poor bastards that came asking for an extension on their tenure or when he would intimidate the reverend coming to ask for a donation. This had been his view whenever he would punish Erik for disappearing from his lessons, just to be found in the stables or the music room. This had been what his father saw every time he said: “I’ll be damned if I won’t make a proper Courtenay out of you! Our house has endured for centuries and I won’t let a little monster like you ruin this legacy!”

It wasn't a particularly interesting view, rather boring actually. His eyes darting through the room, he couldn't say that there was anything in this room he would have enjoyed looking at for hours on end.

“Erik? Is everything alright?” The worried voice of Gerard pulled him back from the deep seas that were his thoughts and brought him back to the present. 

“Yes. You can go to sleep. It is late. I will find my way to my bedroom alone.” He dismissed the elderly butler, not intending on going to sleep for quite a while. He had too much to do tonight. “Oh, and I need a complete list of the servants working here with notations if they live in the castle, if they are married and whether they have children and how many. Thank you.” 

If this request surprised Gerard, he didn’t show it in his countenance nor his demeanor as he simply bowed and wished the earl a good night. 

This night and the next days turned out to be annoyingly hectic for Erik as he made sure to forge and alter his mother’s last will and testament to ensure his title and lands and wealth stayed right where they belonged and wouldn’t be divvied up between some distant relatives he didn’t care about. His parents hadn’t cared about him in life, why should he care about their wishes in death? At the reading of the last will, Erik did notice the notary’s confusion but he was confident in the perfection of his forgery and just a few days later his matters were settled. He was now officially the 13th Earl of Devon and he could finally think about the future; a future as his own master. 

Looking now at the ridiculously large portrait of his father staring down coldly from the imposing landing at anybody who dared enter Powderham Castle, Erik had to admit to himself it wasn’t very well painted. His childish self had thought it a perfect capture of his father’s imposing figure, with the steel-blue eyes and the dark, well-trimmed hair and beard. That was probably the only thing he and his father had in common: their jet black hair, shining like silk. Though Erik knew very well that his father would have scoffed at his own long hair, which was kept in place by a black silk bow in his neck. If his father had been still alive at his return he probably would have ordered him to cut it off, if not even do it himself to teach his little monster of a son another lesson. 

“Our House has endured for centuries…”

Footsteps disturbed Erik’s thoughts and a polite cough from his butler let him turn around to look at Gerard, who seemed to have a perpetual worried and confused look on his face since Erik’s return. “The servant’s belongings and everything you have listed have been carried over to the lodge, and the servants are all assembled in the courtyard. Will you tell me now why this had to be done at bloody three at night?” The butler asked rather grumpily, his exhaustion thickening his french accent even more.

Gerard’s annoyance amused a small, childish part inside Erik, one that rejoiced in being able to surprise people with his little tricks, make them even weary sometimes. His voice was almost a hum when he turned to address his butler with a pleased smile. “You will see in a moment.” He walked past him and down the flight of stairs towards the opened front door of the estate. There he found the few servants that did live within the halls of Powderham castle, either because their duties demanded their constant presence, or because they didn’t have the means to pay for a room in the nearby village. They looked rather miserable and tired huddled around a bonfire that had been set up in the courtyard, as the nights were still rather chilly, for winter was rather reluctant to relinquish its grasp on the lands completely.

His gaze floated over the small crowd, noting some averting their gaze, some staring at him worried and terrified. It was an easy feat for him to project his voice over the courtyard, making him be heard clearly by everybody. “You may be wondering about this rather unusual occurrence. Effective as of this moment you are all dismissed of your obligations and duties to the Courtenay Family and their estate. Come morning you will all receive a sum that should provide a comfortable life for at least three months, after which you are free to reapply for a job at my estate or find employment elsewhere, for which Monsieur Carriere will provide a certificate of recommendation if needed.

The murmuring was like a wild brook flowing towards him and it was paining his ears. Questions of why and what now were the most common and he could see the utter confusion in their eyes as he walked towards the group. “Now I would advise you to take a few paces back.” His calm voice and demeanor just added to their confusion as he bent down and took hold of one of the burning branches in the bonfire. 

“What is the meaning of this, Milord?” Gerard asked, just as confused as the rest of the staff but Erik just winked at him with a smile, the branch in his hand, before suddenly taking a few running steps and throwing the burning piece of wood through the ornate window right next to the open door. Gasps and low screams reached him from behind as he watched the curtains and carpets catch fire and then.  
  
BOOM!  
BOOM!  
BOOM!

The several dozen pouches of explosives he had hidden throughout the castle over the last few days ignited one after the other, spreading fire and destruction until the once glorious Powderham Castle was reduced to a blazing inferno.

“Farewell father. May the fires of hell warm your frigid heart.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Chapter 2 fresh from the beta check by the lovely Ms_Myth
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I love writing it. And yeah I'd be happy about any comments and constructive criticisms.

It was quite picturesque how the flames licked along the walls and out through the windows almost like the tongues of lizards tasting the air for their next victim. He could feel the heat, even behind his mask, like a blanket wrapping tightly around him. 

"Yah Allah, most merciful, what is going on here?" A thickly accented voice thundered through the night, drowning out the crackling of the flames for just a moment. Erik checked his watch, his eyes ghosting over the engraved letters for a second before focusing on the face. Half-past three. With a smile, he looked up at the older man, who briskly walked through the small crowd even while he had to lean heavily on his cane as he did so.

“Daroga. Right on time. I hope you told the coachman to wait.” Erik greeted his rather unusual friend with a slightly crooked smile but only got a cane poking against his chest in return.

"Don't change the subject, boy! What do you think you're doing there?" the Persian asked, his stern dark eyes practically staring holes into Erik's mask as he waited for an answer.

Instead of getting one from the object of his apparent anger it was Gerard who stepped up with a face of thinly veiled contempt. "I’d like to ask you to mind your manners when addressing his Lordship?" Certainly, he was not happy to see his master threatened by a stranger.

A gloved hand was set on Gerard’s shoulder as Erik took a step forward, brushing the Daroga’s cane aside as he did so. “No need to be so hostile, Gerard. If there is one person who has earned the right to be rude to me it is our dear Daroga here. So be civil to him." 

"His Lordship?" The Daroga seemed surprised to hear that, a deep frown growing on his face. Oh right. They had never talked about his upbringing, at least not very much. One could probably say that it was his fault for not telling his unlikely and unusual friend what to expect once they would arrive in England, but Erik refused to feel any guilt about delivering such a mild shock to the old Daroga of Mazandaran. Keeping him on his toes would keep the fellow young he was sure.

So with a smile of pure innocence, Erik cleared his throat. "Indeed, my dear friend. Finding both my parents deceased, it seems to fall on your good friend Erik here to carry the title and responsibility of the Earl of Devon, though this should not change anything between the two of us, of course."

Oh he knew exactly what was going on behind that frown. Surely the Daroga was worried about him of all people being handed responsibility for so many people beneath him, with everything the older man had witnessed in their years of acquaintance. And deep down, Erik had to admit that he couldn't even fault him for that worry.

"And before you start to get any wrong ideas. I had nothing to do with their passing. From what I have gathered my father lived for quite a few years after I had left England and I arrived here after my mother's passing." 

"I would never think..." The Daroga started to say, but fell silent at Erik's knowing look. He might not want to suspect Erik of such depraved acts like parricide, but Erik knew that a small voice in the Daroga's head surely had wondered if he might have, if there was the possibility that he had something to do with their deaths. 

"Forget about that. I asked you a question Erik." Erik could hear the quick intake of air from Gerard next to him at such casual use of his Christian name by somebody seemingly so much lower in social rank. "What is going on here?"

Feeling the heat on his back Erik smiled at his friend and shrugged nonchalantly. "You told me to turn my back on the past, did you not? I'm just heeding your counsel."

"Don't give me that smug grin, boy. You know exactly what I meant and I did not give you that advice so you could go and blow up your home!" 

Of course, he knew. He knew exactly why the Daroga had told him to turn his back on his past when they had fled Persia, beaten and bloodied. But where was the fun in it when he wasn't able to twist things to his benefit and have a little fun? It wasn't like destroying Powderham Castle was a big loss for anybody and even though rebuilding a new mansion would take time, at least he could construct it to his own wishes. It would be his and no ghost of the past would be allowed inside its walls.

"Ah, why harp on about that?" He dismissed the topic with a thoughtless flick of his hand. "I may be a powerful magician, but even I can’t rebuild a house with a snap of my finger. And it is getting late anyway so please can we go to the carriage and leave?" 

"What about the servants, your lordship?" Gerard spoke out just as Erik wanted to start walking. Reminded of the roughly two dozen people, Erik noticed them again, still huddled around the fire and utterly confused with the situation. 

"What about them?" he asked. 

"Surely you don't intend to leave them out here just like this?" 

Erik sighed deeply and gave the Daroga a look asking for support, but just got a stern nod in return. It seemed his friend also thought it - what - Impolite? Rolling his eyes at his friend’s pesky morals, Erik turned his attention back to his butler. 

"I arranged for them to be paid handsomely in a few hours’ time, and even gave them time to gather their belongings before burning down the house. What more do you want from me? Surely that is more than enough. I have been generous enough to these people." He explained calmly though he could feel the irritation boiling up inside. The only reason why he had even bothered to be nice and compensate those people was because of his fondness for Gerard. He had done more than he would have been willing under different circumstances and it was still not enough? 

"Of course Milord," was all Gerard said, his head lowered slightly as he took a step back. Oh, Erik knew this behavior very well. How often had he seen Gerard step back like this after his father had voiced his displeasure over some trivial thing the servants had done. It was meant to show submission and acceptance of the decisions made by the employer but in truth, it oozed a sense of 'I think you are utterly wrong but value my job too much to tell you to your face what I really think of you.'

He hated it. He hated knowing that Gerard was disappointed in him. He hated that he was being treated just like his father. He hated this god damn estate! 

"Daroga, Gerard, we are leaving. Now." Erik practically growled and turned around on his heels. The carriage that the Persian had rented - and probably paid a handsome additional fee for such a late-night journey - was waiting at the gate to the estate, a good 500 meters away. But even there it was easy to see the flames still burning brightly as they consumed every last bit of Powderham Castle. 

Seeing him approach, the coachman called out to him, "Oi, what happened? There was a loud bang and now everything's burning? Anybody hur...t." He gulped and fell silent as Erik finally stepped close enough that his face would have been visible, if not for the black void of his mask. While high society loved to make up reasons and excuses for unusual appearances - as long as they were pleasant enough to look at - the lower classes were less courteous and faster to draw conclusions steeped in religion and superstition. This coachman was no different, his eyes wide as his mind probably went through several prayers at the sight of a masked man with eyes of sulfur with the flames of hell behind him.

But Erik had neither patience nor time for any of this. So he just pulled out a small coin purse from his jacket and threw it up to the man. "Cowick Street in Exeter. And quickly."

The hour it took them to get to Exeter was spent in tense silence with Gerard and the Daroga not entirely knowing what to think of one another, considering their clashing cultural upbringings, while simultaneously being united in their disapproval of Erik's behavior. Not that this was anything new for the Earl, as he was sure at least the Persian disapproved of his actions more often than not. And yet he was still here, looking after him. Once again Erik found himself wondering why the Daroga cared at all.

Considering the hour they arrived at the small second-story apartment Erik had rented just a few days earlier - sending one of the servant boys to make the arrangements of course - it wasn't very surprising when the three men rather quickly found any place to lie down and fall asleep. Even Erik who normally had a rather unusual sleeping schedule, if one could even call it that, felt the exhaustion of the last few weeks and the rather unpleasant conversation with the two older men. 

Several hours later, the sun had long since risen when Erik heard movements and groaning in the other room where he had left the Daroga and Gerard to sleep on the Sofas while he moved into the small kitchen. It wasn't the best place to work as the table was rather small, but as the living room was occupied by two rather loudly snoring men and the bedroom didn’t have a table at all, it was all he had. 

Sticking his head through the door, the Daroga noticed him looking up from the large piece of parchment he was currently bent over and grumbled, "I'm pretty sure I don't want to know how long you have been up already. What are you working on?"

"Lannion Hall." was all Erik said as he returned to drawing lines with a ruler and a sharpened pencil.

"Why do you blow up a perfectly good Manor just to start planning a new one right away?" the Daroga asked with a sigh, leaning against the doorframe, his hair quite disheveled as he had just risen from his sleep. 

"Because this will be mine. No memories, no history, a blank slate. A Sanctuary. You said I should forget what happened in Tehran because otherwise, it would haunt me to the end of my days. Well, Tehran isn't the only place with bad memories." 

"You didn't have a good relationship with your father I assume?" The Daroga asked, which drew a dry chuckle from Erik's thin lips as he once again looked up, a few strands of his hair brushing against his ears as they slipped out of the ribbon. 

"No, we did not have a _good relationship_. Lords usually don't take it well when their only heir is a monster. Even less so than the common folk. A butcher could have just left me out in the woods to be devoured by wolves. But my father couldn't do that, who knew when, or if at all, his wife would bear him another son. Though I assume that during his last years he had wished he had just abandoned me anyway, even if my mother never managed to bear him another child." his tone was calm, almost clinical, but he could see that it hit the Daroga just as much as if he had yelled. Still clinging on to his faith, the mere thought of murdering a small child was barbaric to the former chief of police of Mazandaran, but to Erik it was a familiar thought that had long lost all its horror. How often had he wondered if his father would just make him disappear at the first sign of another child growing inside his mother. But she never bore another child, leaving him an only child.and their only heir. 

"I'm so-" 

His amber eyes flashed dangerously as he stared at the Persian, silencing him. "Don't you dare. I'm going to throw you out of this window if you so much as think it." The last thing he wanted was anyone’s pity, and even less so from somebody who actually knew him. "Go and wake up Gerard if he'd not up yet, and make yourself presentable. We have a long day ahead of us."

"Us? Why us?" The Daroga asked, his tone and body posture rather apprehensive, suspecting something horrible to come. 

Erik just smiled as he drew the last line, signed the floor plan he had worked on for the last several hours and straightened himself, cracking a few joints in the process.

"Because I say so, my dear Daroga."


End file.
